Page 6 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

B

lake was sure his eyes were open, yet he saw naught but black. Not a normal darkness. Nay, this darkness was alive, pumping and pulsing like the beat of a massive black heart. He could hear it breathing, feel the fiery-hot puff of its breath on his face, shiver from its intense hatred. Heart racing, he peered into the black void, hoping to see a spark, a speck of light. Anything but the thick blackness threatening to choke him.

There. In the distance, a red glare. He stared at it, afraid to move. It grew larger, brighter…. orange, yellow, and red flames reaching upward. A fire? The darkness around him stretched, moving toward his left and right, spanning the scene like a toxic curtain. Until something sharp cleaved it asunder, and it separated into black figures, some tall, some short, some round, some thin—all swaying as if they were on a ship at sea. Or under a spell . He could not make out their faces, but he knew they hated him.

Knew their contempt could not be quenched by anything but his eternal damnation.

Pushing the phantoms aside, a man emerged from the heinous specters. Dressed in a fine suit of violet taffeta with a silk cravat bubbling about his neck, he halted before Blake with a vile grin and a supercilious stare that resurrected memories Blake had long since buried.

“Father?”

The man snorted. “Who else, little mongrel?” He circled Blake, fingering the manicured beard on his chin, assessing him, scrutinizing him like he used to do. Right before he would pummel Blake over and over with his fists.

A plethora of foul curses and insults spilled from the man’s mouth, each causing the ghouls to grow more agitated. Or was it excitement ? Their groans and grunts grew louder, their bodies undulated more violently.

Terror clambered up Blake’s throat until he could hardly breathe. Where was he? Hell ? Was the place real after all? Of a surety that would explain his father’s presence.

“Nay!” He crushed fists into his eyes, rubbing away the vision, nightmare, whatever it was, demanding he wake up.

His father appeared before him. “You never could do anything right, little mongrel.” His favorite pet name for Blake.

Ignoring him, Blake searched for a way of escape. There had to be a way out! He wasn’t supposed to be here! He knew it.

His father gripped his arm, his eyes wide with shock. A trickle of blood spilled from his lips. The shock transformed into a maniacal loathing, a hatred that infected Blake’s very soul. His father looked down, aghast. Blood oozed from a wound to his belly. Releasing Blake, he gripped it and backed away.

“You killed me!” he seethed. “You…killed….me!”

A monkey’s jabbering rang through the darkness. Turning, Blake dashed into the ghoulish mob.

Light swallowed him whole, dispelling the shadows. His head throbbed.

His stomach vaulted.

The monkey kept chattering.

He pried open his eyes. His cabin formed around him. The same fiendish dark shadows swayed across the deck.

We will do your bidding. We will do your bidding .

The words, dark and malevolent, repeated over and over.

“Be gone!” Spotting an empty bottle of rum, he grabbed it and threw it at them.

Instantly, they vanished. The bottle hit the bulkhead and splintered into a dozen pieces, glittering in the rays of sunlight floating in from his cabin windows.

Bandit leapt up and down on his desk, screeching in terror.

“Hush now,” Blake mumbled as he attempted to rise from his bed. The pain etching across his skull and the sour bubbling in his belly halted him. He hadn’t thought he’d overdrank. Finally managing to rise, he stumbled to last night’s empty bottle of rum on the window ledge. Must have been some bad spirits, for he’d not so much as given a thought, nor a dream, of his father in years.

But those devilish apparitions? Here in his cabin .

Bandit finally settled and leapt onto the ledge, quietly staring up at Blake.

He patted him on the head. “Just a bad dream, nothing more.”

Rubbing the Ring on his finger, he leaned back against his desk. Outside the windows, morning sun dappled gold over an azure sea. He would not allow a nightmare to stop him now. Not when he had the Ring and all the power that came with it.

Renewed excitement chased away the memories of the night as he grew anxious to test those powers. He didn’t have long to wait as one of his men knocked on his cabin door and alerted him they’d spotted a sail.

Shaking off both the throbbing in his head and the nightmarish dream, he emerged onto the quarterdeck to a torrid breeze and spray of salty mist.

“Four points off our starboard bow,” Finn shouted and gestured to his right.

Plucking the scope from his belt, Blake leveled it in that direction where the sails of a schooner puffed like cotton against a cerulean sky.

“She sits low in the water,” he said to no one in particular as he spun and began flinging orders to set all canvas to the wind. Low meant she had cargo, valuable cargo. It also would slow her down. Marching to the helm, he touched the Ring and grinned. Though he’d captured and plundered many a merchantman without it, ’twould be good to see what other powers it possessed besides creating a foggy mist.

“She’s a fast one,” Maston shouted from the main deck. “Even with all our sails set to the wind, she keeps her distance.”

Leaping down the quarterdeck ladder, Blake marched to the railing, examining their soon-to-be prize. Indeed, her smaller size aided her speed. At this rate, and with the contrary wind and current, the Summons would be hard pressed to catch her.

If he could but shift the wind a mere two points toward the west and alter the current ever so slightly, he could run her aground on the shoals near that cay in the distance.

He clasped the Ring and made his request, a whisper that was soon swallowed by the wind. Pivoting, he found Maston. “Ready about! Ease down. Let go the foresheet!”

“But Capitaine .” The Frenchman stared at him quizzically. “The wind?”

“’Twill be in our favor soon. Do as I say.” He knew it. For some reason, he knew the Ring would grant his request.

Shaking his head, Maston uttered a curse but continued shouting orders. “Helms alee, rise tacks and sheets!”

Turning, Blake glanced over the turquoise sea. The Summons ’ sails flapped and then dropped like old garments for but a moment, a painful moment, before they sprang to life again, bloated with wind. The brig jerked to starboard. Blake grabbed the railing as white foam crept up the hull, clawing for his boots.

But his eyes remained on the merchant schooner. Sails that had been round and full just minutes ago now hung limp. Men scrambled across her deck, springing into the shrouds, as the ship headed straight for the cay.

b

Unusual sounds and a stench Emeline could not deny lassoed her unconscious mind, dragging it from a blissful slumber she’d only fallen into moments before. Nay! She clung to that peaceful state wherein troubles dissipated and sweet dreams brought hope. I don’t want to go back. Leave me here! But the sounds transformed into vulgar slurs, the thunder of sails, and the crank of guns being run out. And she knew yesterday had not been a nightmare. And she was not safely on board her father’s ship.

Her cabin jerked to starboard. She flew over the mattress and struck the bulkhead, the pain jarring her into a reality she could no longer deny.

The brig righted itself. With great effort, she rose and leapt from the shifting cot, getting her balance on the heaving deck. The vaulting beneath her feet, along with the loud crash of water against the hull, told her the Summons was racing across the sea. To what purpose? It could only be one of two reasons. Either they were being pursued or they were in pursuit.

Stumbling to the sideboard where Pedro had left a pitcher of water, Emeline poured some into a basin and splashed it over her face. A wonderful thought dared intrude upon her despair. Perhaps her father was after them, intent on her rescue!

Oh, Lord, let it be so .

Taking no care for the state of her gown or her disheveled hair, she flung open the door, made her way down the hall and up the ladder to the main deck, where instantly a dozen prurient gazes latched upon her. Ignoring them, she cast a furtive glance at the captain standing at the helm before moving to the bulwarks and focusing her eyes upon a schooner in the distance. The poor ship was in dire trouble, for she had run aground in the shallows of an islet. Sailors dashed across her deck, some attending limp sails, others casting trunks and barrels overboard in an attempt to free themselves from their rocky prison. But to no avail.

Captain Keene blared orders for main and fore sails to be lowered and for the one-armed helmsman to bring the Summons to a halt off the schooner’s stern outside the aim of her guns. Regardless, Master Gunner Charlie kept her gun crew at the ready on the bow chasers and the nine-pounders mounted on the starboard railing should the merchant ship be able to maneuver. The gun crew were quick to follow her orders, never once grumbling at having to take commands from a woman. Charlie looked up and gave Emeline a tiny smile before she spun back to her duties. Perhaps Emeline had found a friend on board after all.

“Musketeers to the tops!” the captain ordered, and a dozen pirates scrambled above, muskets in their hands.

“Stop ’em from tossing our booty into the bay, Cap’n!” Finn shouted at Captain Keene. Other pirates glanced at the merchants still hauling cargo to the deck and grumbled curses of complaint.

The captain ignored them. “Fire when ready, Charlie!” he commanded, and in moments one of the bow chasers boomed, shaking the ship from stem to stern. The railing quivered beneath Emeline’s hands even as the deafening roar thundered in her ears. ’Twas nothing she was not accustomed to on board her father’s ship, but the power of these guns never failed to unnerve her.

The warning shot flew over the schooner and landed off her larboard side as intended.

Captain Keene held a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Good quarter will be granted if you lay down your arms and open your hatches!”

“You should move to safety, Mademoiselle .” Claude Maston’s tug on her arm startled her as he grinned at her like a snake would a timid mouse. “We cannot predict whether they will put up a fight.”

Tugging from his grip, Emeline glanced up at the topmen preparing to fire and then over at the schooner, where sailors were armed with muskets and blades. Would she be forced to watch a bloody battle? Thus far, her parents had kept her from witnessing such a gruesome scene. Lord, let none die this day, she prayed silently, then moved to stand beneath the quarterdeck. Why the libertine cared whether she was blown to bits she could not fathom. Surely the captain took not a care either, for he’d not once glanced her way since she’d come on deck.

Thankfully, the merchantmen did as Captain Keene demanded. Begrudgingly, they tossed down their weapons and withdrew from the guns lining their bulwarks. Cheers and chortles rose from the pirates as preparations were made to ease the Summons close enough to the schooner without running aground and then to lower the boat to haul all their ill-gotten treasure on board.

Emeline had seen enough. Not only had she no desire to watch the theft—and perhaps murder—of innocent merchants, but the pirates, having disarmed their enemies, now seemed as interested in her as they were in acquiring their plunder. Therefore, since the threat of a cannon blast below decks no longer existed, she started for her cabin, the rats infesting it preferable to the ones on deck. She could only hope that after Captain Keene satisfied his lust for treasure, he would remember her and put her ashore at the nearest port.

“May I escort you below, Mademoiselle ?” Sweeping off his tricorn, Maston appeared beside her yet again. Black curly hair waved about his face in the wind, while sweat and the distinct scent of some kind of spirits circled him.

“Nay, I’m sure you have duties to attend.” She offered a tight smile.

He glanced over the deck. “Not at the moment. It would be my pleasure.”

Emeline’s nerves tightened. She must not allow herself to be alone with this libertine. But what to do? She had no champion aboard the ship. No one would come to her rescue. With the pirates busy boarding their latest victim, who would even notice?

“I must refuse you, Sir.” She stood her ground, daring to lock eyes with him. His were a brown so dark, they could barely be distinguished from black. A lusty gleam lit them, and yet something lurked beyond it, a loss, an emptiness. Lashes any woman would envy framed their perfect shape, and along with his aquiline nose and strong jaw—if he were bathed and dressed in clean finery—he would pass for a nobleman.

A dark-skinned woman, lovely in form and face, flitted across Emeline’s vision. The scene switched to a white columned estate with an extended portico upon which an elderly nobleman stood, smoking a cheroot.

“Is this bilge-licking jackal bothering you, Miss?” A woman’s voice swept away the visions as Charlie marched up to them, her pointed gaze directed at Maston.

“Stand down, Charlotte. ” Maston snorted in derision. “Best get back to your guns.”

“Gladly, monsieur ,” she retorted in a feigned French accent . “ An’ you’ll see them pointed at your maggot-infested hide.”

Emeline took a step back. Best not to get involved in whatever quarrel existed between these two. Beyond them, Captain Keene stood at the starboard railing, ordering several pirates down into the boat that had just been lowered.

Maston plopped his hat back atop his head and gave a lecherous grin. “Thinking of my hide, are you? I offer it freely to you any time.”

“I’d rather be skinned alive and tossed to the sharks.” Charlie spat to the side, casting a glance at Emeline. “Leave her be or answer to me.” She snorted in disgust. “Must every woman who dares cross your path endure your vomit-inducing advances?”

“I’ve heard no complaints.”

Charlie stabbed his chest with a finger so hard, he nearly stumbled backward. “Not until you leave them wit’ a babe in their womb an’ not a shilling to live on.”

For a moment, Maston merely stared at her, then he shrugged. “Such accusations, Mademoiselle Charlotte!”

Charlie gripped the hilt of her blade. “Call me that again, and I’ll gut you where you stand!”

Emeline’s breath caught in her throat. She took another step back, glancing at the hatch that led below to her cabin.

Maston arched his brows. “If you refer to the woman in Barbados, it was her choice. I am not a man to force myself upon a lady.” He adjusted the dirty lace on his cuffs. “The babe was an unfortunate consequence.”

Plucking a knife from her belt, Charlie charged him and leveled it at his throat. “You unrighteous cad. You left her with nothing!”

Emeline’s heart seized. Would Charlie kill the man right where he stood? And over what? His was a crime many a pirate committed across these islands.

A wave of fear traveled across Maston’s face, quickly scattered by a fury that narrowed his eyes and pulsed a vein in his neck. He grabbed Charlie’s arms, spun her, and shoved her back against his chest, then forced the knife in her hand to point at her own gut.

Emeline’s throat went dry. Before she could ponder her next action, before she could consider the sanity of it, she grabbed the hilt of Charlie’s cutlass, pulled it from its sheath, leapt behind Maston, and pointed the tip at his back. “Let her go, or I’ll slice you in two!”